THE DYING BLIND BOY TO HIS MOTHER.
MOTHER, I am dying now,
Death's cold damps are on my brow!
Leave me not-each pang grows stronger-
Patient watch a little longer.
Sweet it is your voice to hear,
Though dull and heavy grows mine ear;
Wait and take my last adieu,
Never mother loved like you!
Though your form I ne'er might see,
Your image was not hid from me-
Stamped on my adoring mind,
Beautiful, but undefined,
Ever fair, and ever bright,
That vision filled me with delight.
Well I knew, whate'er might be
Those oft-praised forms I could not see,
Might I all their beauty view,
None of them would rival you.
Life to me was sweet and dear,
While I lived thy tales to hear,
Told by you, on wintry hearth,
All to make your blind boy mirth :
And I loved my voice to join
In chorus of those hymns divine,
By which you fondly taught your boy
To look to heaven with hope and joy.
Sun or moon I could not see,
But love measured time for me;
When your kiss my slumber broke,
Then I knew the morn had woke ;
When I heard the loud winds blow,
And I felt the warm fire glow,
Then I knew 'twas winter wild,
And kept at home-your helpless child!
When the air grew mild and soft,
And the gay lark sang aloft;
And I heard the streamlet flowing,
And I smelt the wild-flower blowing,
And the bee did round me hum,
Then I knew the spring had come.
Forth I wandered with delight,
And I knew when days were bright;
When I climbed the green hill's side,
Fancy traced the prospect wide;
And 'twas pleasant when I pressed
The warm and downy turf to rest.
Now I never more shall roam,
The many paths around my home,
And you will often look in vain,
Nor hail your wandering boy again;
Never more on tiptoe creep,
Where he lies as if asleep,
THE DYING BLIND BOY.
Or with low and plaintive moan,
Humming to himself alone,
On a bed of wild-flowers stretched,
Starting when a kiss you snatched,
Till nature whispered-'twas my mother,
And affection gave another!
But 'tis sweeter thus to die,
With my tender mother by,
Than to be in life alone
When she and every friend were gone.
Mourn not o'er me, broken hearted,
For not long shall we be parted;
Soon in vales which ever bloom,
Which unfading flowers perfume,
In realms of life, of light, of joy,
You will meet your poor blind boy
THE death of happy childhood,
While day has but begun
To see the glorious dawning
Of another brighter sun,
To pass away ere sorrow comes
With her chill, withering hand,
Fresh as from God to pass away
Into the better land.
The graves of peaceful childhood,
Grass-grown and fair to see,
Watched by affection's tearful eye,
And guarded carefully.
At eventide the daisies sleep
Upon the quiet bed,
While in far deeper slumber rests
The young-the cherished dead.
The heaven of ransomed childhood,
Oh Lamb of God once slain,
The "little ones" Thou lovest still,
All worthy is Thy name.
In bright array they gather round
Thy throne of light divine;
Safe in Thy Love-no more to roam,
Dear Saviour, they are thine.
On the Death of an only Child.
"It is not the will of my Father which is in heaven, that one of these little ones should perish."
THE day is beautiful, and nature springs
To life and light again. Where art thou gone
In thy young bloom, my own, my lovely one?
Nor sun, nor balmy air, thy image brings
To bless my longing eyes. The violet flings
Its rath perfume around-sweet warblers own
Their joy in varied song-yet sad alone,
Can I rejoice, when all surrounding things
Tell of thy opening beauty-shrouded now
In the cold precincts of the silent tomb?
I did not think to weep thy early doom,
My best beloved! Yet would I meekly bow
To His decree, who, in the words of love-
"She will not perish !" whispers from above.
FROM THE SACRED OFFERING.
Who yesterday was sad and may be so to-morrow.
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